


Unleashed (A Leopard Cannot Change Its Spots)

by galeaspida



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Adventure, Angst, Canon Compliant Up Until Mid-Aedirn, Emotions, Eventual Romance, F/F, Nods to Mythos, Power Struggle, Slow Burn, So many emotions, Tensions Rising, There Will Be Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:40:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27905362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/galeaspida/pseuds/galeaspida
Summary: After an abrupt departure from Aedirn twenty years into her court assignment, Yennefer continues to be an intermittent thorn in Tissaia’s side - until Tissaia does something about it. Canon-divergent past Aedirn - set in 1633. Tissaia/Yennefer.
Relationships: Tissaia de Vries/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 28
Kudos: 74





	Unleashed (A Leopard Cannot Change Its Spots)

**Author's Note:**

> This is the fic that has been percolating since my last multi-chaptered story. It is T-rated for now, but I anticipate some violence, so the rating may change. 
> 
> Special thanks to twentyfivehamsters for plot bouncing/real-time additions/general trickery and to troiings for editing since I cannot be trusted with language without a competent adult.

Most in the Northern Realms had only heard tales of the mysterious land of Ofir from the lips of seafaring merchants and sailors recently returned to the Continent. Such stories were generally told with an artifact or two as evidence of their veracity; the black and white striped hide of a horse, a tarnished brass lamp, or an ornate red rug rumoured to possess the power of flight - provided the owner knew the secret word to activate it. The holders of these items kept their eager audiences enraptured with exaggerated tales of their provenance - and as such, truth was difficult to pin down. 

After all, the wilder the story, the higher the price a buyer might be willing to pay for a remnant of Ofir, or, at the very least, the more mugs of ale earned from an enthralled crowd in a tavern.

In actuality, it took nearly two weeks, even if winds were favourable, to sail from the most southern tip of the Continent, across the azure waters of the Middle Sea, to the first glimpse of Ofir - a line of limestone rock towering on the horizon. The white cliffs plunged hundreds of fathoms into the deep ocean, making it impossible to land, and it was only when travellers followed the narrow seam of sand down the undulating coastline for another handful of days that they would be greeted by a wide river delta that glittered in the heat of the constant sun, and golden grasslands that stretched as far as the eye could see.

There was another way to Ofir, though there were few who knew of it, and fewer still who might make _use_ of it. 

On top of the tallest of the cliffs that faced north, in the middle of a thousand-year-old olive grove, a worn platform of white and black stone tiles had been arranged in a large circle. This space was carefully swept once a day to keep the tiles free of blown dirt and fallen leaves from the surrounding trees, but otherwise the landing was left unattended, out of respect for - and fear of - those who made use of the space. 

Tales travelled both ways, after all, and the stories of wild races in the cold parts of the world constantly warring amongst themselves, vicious hunters of monsters with strange powers, and the secretive conclave of sorcerers who could level a city with a word, were more frightening to the Ofiri than anything that their own land might hold.

\---

It is a calm November day and the sun is at its zenith in the sky when the silence of the olive grove is cut by the pop and hum of a sudden slice in space, and the first visitor in five years - a woman - steps down onto the ceramic tiles that mark out the boundary of the portal marker. 

Straight-backed and serene, she makes a striking contrast against the scraggy branches and twisting trunks. She is dressed in a fine gown of heavy blue silk, more suited for winter than for the sweltering weather, and her dark hair is pinned up in a loose twist at the nape of her neck, not a single strand out of place. Her beauty is undeniable, but there is something in her sky-blue eyes that hints at an age closer to that of the surrounding trees than the smoothness of her skin allows. 

The magical door crackles as it disperses into nothingness behind her, but she does not look back, her gaze fixed instead on the gleaming white edifice towering above the ocean a quarter mile away.

—

Tissaia de Vries blinks, eyes adjusting to the sudden brightness under the sparsely-leafed branches. Everything in sight reflects the sun blazing above, and the sweltering heat would be a shock to anyone who wasn't able to magically disperse it from their person. The only concession she makes to the heat is to remove her deer-skin gloves, vanishing them into nothingness with a wave of her hand.

She crosses the glade slowly, still breathing heavily from the effort of her skipped-stone portals - the momentum of the final one carrying her across the great distance of the ocean. An old technique of travel, no longer taught because of the danger inherent in it, but there had been a necessary urgency to reach Ofir in as little time as possible. The panicked message received that very morning from the ambassador's envoy had fit too neatly with the troubling news of late from her network of watchers in the South; unbalanced markets, vanished nobles, and missing merchant ships that had never arrived at their destinations, only to be discovered empty on the shores of the Ofiri river mouth. 

And there were darker suggestions also, whispers from members inside the Chapter urging that they rid themselves of a particular nuisance. Permanently. 

She breathes in the salt-tinged air that carries the scent of the wild rosemary bushes, and it takes a mere minute of rest until her heart settles into a steady pace. Adjusting the gold pendant around her neck so that it falls over the center of her sternum in the same manner that a falcon might smooth its feathers after a flight, Tissaia tests and tightens the already meticulously-woven barriers that guard her mind from intrusion. 

Satisfied, she moves towards her destination with clear purpose in her stride. 

—

The Ofiri royal palace is universally acknowledged to be the most scrupulously-preserved example of early elvish architecture still in existence, so very dissimilar to the thick-walled, crudely-functional fortresses of heavy stone built a millennia later by humans. Only the inner sanctum of Beauclair in Toussaint hints at the same graceful design, the immaculate detail and craftsmanship that has been lost to time and war in the rest of the world. 

The palace’s high walls encircle over a square mile of land, with the inner buildings constructed of white-glazed brick and decorative ceramic tiles in a rich jewel blue, topped by gigantic domes and narrow minarets spiralling up towards the sky at every corner. 

The wooden gates are already open when Tissaia arrives at the entrance, towering five times her height up to the top of the walls. The guards are bowing in deference from the battlements and on either side of the gatehouse, their spears high. The sorceress from the Continent is a familiar figure to the men, just as she was to their fathers and grandfathers generations past, and no questions are asked about the purpose of her visit. 

A guard accompanies her into the palace, a symbol of respect to her station. The escort has the courtesy to not engage her in conversation, the only clue to his existence being the tapping of his leather sandals as they walk down the wide corridor of the west wall. Tissaia is thankful for his silence. It gives her time to take in the subtle changes to the grounds, the faint clues that something isn’t quite right.

The vaulted perimeter halls of the outer ring are wide, with pointed arched windows overlooking the expanse of turquoise sea beyond. Even the slight breeze moving through the shaded halls doesn't quite cut the oppressive heat of the afternoon sun glowing above, or the heaviness of the humidity hanging in the air. Orange and lemon trees are in bloom - scattered in symmetrical arrangement throughout the palace grounds - and beautiful fountains plume with cold spring water driven up from deep underground.

While the guard has slowed his pace so that Tissaia does not need to quicken hers, they soon pass the first set of columns that marks the beginning of the inner circle of the palace, and then into a carefully-tended royal orchard - the entrance of which is flanked by two mature fig trees and a splendid archway.

The sun-drenched gardens beyond are filled with life. Curling grape vines climb up the high walls of the garden, dripping with dense clusters of gold and purple fruit. There is the earthy scent of warm soil, and the sweetness of ripening fruit in the air - persimmon, apricot, pomegranate hang on the closest of the trees, and so many more beyond. Fat honeybees trace haphazard trails amongst the leaves as they move from flower to flower in search of nectar, and the buzzing and chirring of insects is a low hum to the trickle of water from fountains that ripple with crystal-clear pools, reflecting the surrounding vegetation and the blue sky above.

There are animals here also - many, many more than on her last visit. Deer graze in the distance, pulling fruit from the higher branches, while small animals scurry amongst the limbs, cheeks full of fruit, scattering away from the newcomers. Peacocks strut through the shade of the trees, their blue and green tail feathers dragging heavily behind them, while parrots of every colour and description call out in the branches overhead, whistling and chirping at each other in many different languages. 

Tissaia’s eyes narrow at the faint haze of magic surrounding the nearest of the birds, but she does not pause in her strides, or even turn her head. 

After a long walk along the intersecting garden paths, they arrive at the heart of the orchard, at which a magnificent building made of marble stands, all pointed arches and faced brick, the sloping ceiling flanked by fluted columns four stories high. This is the central throne room of the royal family of Ofir - favoured for many generations of kings and queens as the seat of their power. 

The guard bows low, hand on the pommel of his jeweled sword, gesturing with his arm that Tissaia is to enter alone. 

The hair prickles on the back of her neck as she moves up the steps and through the pale curtains of silk framing the arched doorway; the pull in her chest is so much stronger here, an ominous portent.

But of course, Tissaia already knows _who_ awaits her inside. 

\---

Sunlight streams in through the single circular opening in the ceiling’s pendentive, bathing the center of the rectangular room in warmth, reflecting off the gold leaf and blue-glazed tiles extending across the entire expanse of the ceiling. Translucent drapes hang down from the ceiling and the delicate scent of citrus lingers in the air, wafting in from the white-blossoms of the trees beyond. 

On previous visits a crowd of brightly-attired nobles, knights, and musicians would have filled the throne room to bursting with laughter and music, but instead the room is deserted. There is evidence of recent habitation; long wooden tables are arranged against the columns, each heavy with half-eaten dishes of spiced meats, fragrant peppered grains, varieties of olives and nuts, and many other delicious-looking platters that glitter in the sunlight and absolutely reek of enchantment. 

There are more discordant notes: golden goblets are scattered across the tables, unused cutlery strewn about, and a multitude of mismatched sandals and piles of torn fabric that look as though they might have once been clothes litter the floor. The bench to her immediate right is toppled over on its side, spilled wine still on the floor, as if the previous occupants had left in a great hurry.

But Tissaia is not alone.

The elaborate gold and lacewood throne that should sit in the center of the room is gone. Instead there is a sumptuous daybed in its place, decorated with silks and soft-looking pillows. Two golden leopards with spotted pelts are lying on the bed, flanking the sole person in the room - a woman reclined, a crystal goblet caught loosely in her right hand, utterly absorbed in a small leather-bound book. 

To an untrained eye, the woman looks enough like one of the Ofiri. She has olive skin, gracefully-proportioned limbs, and smooth dark hair spilling across one narrow shoulder. Her attire is notable in both fit and material - a sheer robe of spun silk and gold thread that shamelessly reveals her slender form. Snug around her neck is a wide necklace of exquisite craftsmanship, woven of strands of gold and glittering diamonds. 

The smaller leopard looks in Tissaia’s direction as she walks into the room, the tip of its long tail twitching lazily, and the woman on the bed notes the newcomer at the animal’s chuffing sound. Her expression changes from disinterest to delight, and her full lips tilt into a dangerous-looking smile as she sets her book down and sits up taller in the bed.

‘Tissaia _de Vries_.’ 

The alto voice reverberates throughout the space with crystal clarity. 

‘Such an _honor_ to be graced by your presence, so very far from that cold mausoleum you call a _school_. It has been almost a year since last we met...Hindarsfjall, was it not?’ 

‘Kaer Trolde. A mere six months ago, Yennefer.’ 

Tissaia has stopped ten paces away from the daybed, just on the edge of the light cast from the ceiling.

‘So many islands in Skellige - one can’t be expected to remember them all. But, where are my manners? Welcome to Ofir, land of sun and sweetness, the last bastion of civility, and my chosen home of late.’ She selects a plump fig from the platter of fruit set on the rug next to the bed, gesturing towards the nearest of the wooden tables with her goblet. 'I fear you’ve missed the banquet - my guests ate their fill and then scattered to the gardens at some speed.' 

As if on cue, there is a shrill squeal from beyond the citrus trees on the eastern side of the colonnade. 

Tissaia's eyebrows rise, and her head tilts to one side as she notes the distant snorting of swine amongst the answering cries of peacocks.

'You've returned to your childhood occupation of tending hogs, I see,' she observes, her voice rebounding off the façade of the back wall. 'An _unusual_ choice for a sorceress of your education.'

Yennefer shrugs, the light from the pendentive above her catching the movement of her bare shoulder. 

‘Minding animals holds many similarities to minding royals if one thinks about it,’ she says, taking a delicate bite out of the fig, the flash of white teeth against red flesh. ‘Give simple directions, keep them occupied with even simpler tasks, and make sure they don’t leave a mess in public areas.’ 

Pausing to pop the rest of the fig into her mouth, Yennefer chews before continuing. 

‘But you mentioned hogs. If I recall correctly, _you_ were once interested in purchasing a piglet. The prices of livestock have changed significantly since then; I fear you'd find it difficult to get much for four marks these days - a chicken or a duck, perhaps, or something particularly _unloved_ by its owner.' 

Her eyes bore into Tissaia's, and her smile is flawed in the way a dropped egg might have a tracery of cracks across the shell. Tissaia holds her gaze without blinking, her mouth set in a single straight line. 

After a moment, the mask slips back over Yennefer’s face, her expression smoothed. 

‘I imagine you are here for some grand purpose or another, rather than a social call. Might I interest you in wine? Not even in the fabled vineyards of Toussaint can boast of better grapes. Or are you here to peruse the royal library? The palace is home to the greatest collection of ancient elven texts in existence, as you well know. _This_ \- for instance -,’ she taps the leather cover of the book with a finger, ‘a set of erotic prose spanning every culture and kingdom of the Continent.’ 

Yennefer tilts her head to the side, and her simmering smile widens ever so slightly.

‘Perhaps I could read some to you? Who knows, even with the wealth of experience you must have in the subject after such a long life, you might learn something new.’

Tissaia ignores her. 

'Where is the Crown Prince?’ she asks coolly. ‘I trust you weren't foolish enough to kill him?'

‘Azir?’ Yennefer’s eyebrows rise as she lifts her goblet to her lips. 'He's a _changed_ man, now.' 

It is impossible to miss the inflection, and Tissaia's eyes immediately flick to the larger of the leopards at the side of the bed. Following the line of her gaze, Yennefer laughs. 

'No, Tissaia, I’d never give _him_ such a flattering form. Sometimes a leopard is only a leopard.’ She runs her hand through the coat of the animal sitting to her left. ‘These creatures are much happier free of their chains - wasted on the hunting trips that Azir forces them out on.' 

The leopard bumps its forehead against her shoulder, leaning into the scratch behind its ears. Yennefer’s eyes trail down Tissaia’s body to the floor and then back up. 

' _You_ , on the other hand, Tissaia, I always thought there was something of a cat about _you_. Your eyes, your clever lips, the way you play with the lives of others with velvet paws, preying on the unwary and vulnerable, exploiting every flaw to full effect. Why, it's positively _feline_.'

Tissaia takes several measured steps forwards into the circular area of light, closing the distance between them until she is a handful of paces away. Her blue eyes are cold.

'Are we to play Twenty Questions about what you've turned Prince Azir into or must I _beat_ it out of you, girl?’ she snaps. ‘This is the fourth court in as many years that you've left in shambles, not counting the other creative punishments that you’ve concocted for those who caused you some trifling offense or other. I have much better things to do than continually chase you across the Continent, mopping up your _messes_. The Brotherhood...'

‘...surely has better things to do than chasing down a simple sorceress in search of a proper library, a decent glass of wine, and a place to rest her head. I know all about the so-called Curse of the Black Sun that has occupied your precious Chapter's attention of late - now that the full extent of it has been revealed so publicly. I don’t suppose that _you_ had a hand in that grisly business?’ 

She does not receive an answer. A parrot flies over the pendentive, the whisper of feathers, a quick shadow across the ground. Yennefer swirls the wine in her glass in a slow circle, watching it catch the light from above. 

‘There is no need to bare your teeth at me, Tissaia - you'll find your precious prince hopping about in the river reeds. All he has to do to return to his natural form is convince a passing maiden to kiss him. His chances have certainly improved from when he was capable of speech; I do believe I've never met a more _boorish_ noble.'

Tissaia's sharp chin rises. 

'You _will_ change him back to his human form, Yennefer. He is to be married to Duchess Tigraal in Nazaire next week. Five separate treaties rely on that union.'

'Go wade in the shallows if it pleases you,' Yennefer chuckles as she raises her arms above her head, the faint lines of her abdomen thrown into clear definition as she stretches. Smiling at the release, she settles back into the cushions, the bulk of her dark hair sliding back over one narrow shoulder. ‘I _have_ found the river a pleasant place to swim of late, even if my bathing draws unasked-for attentions at times. Such crude visitors from the North - so eager to inflict themselves on the hospitality of the Ofiri.’ 

Heavy-lidded eyes drop to look appraisingly at Tissaia’s high-necked gown, taking in the heavy layers of silk. 

'I would recommend a change in attire - those beautiful skirts will only weigh you down when wet.’ Another sip. A smile. ‘I would be more than happy to assist in their removal, if you would be agreeable to it. The sun on your skin is truly unlike any other.’

Tissaia considers the recent rumours rising from Ofir - of sailors from the Continent enticed onto shore by beautiful sirens, only to disappear without a trace. Such tales seem more believable now, particularly when paired with the sudden glut of swine reported to have flooded the Southern markets of late. 

It is obvious that she has let the silence stretch for too long a time, because Yennefer sets her wineglass down next to the fruit platter, her heavy fall of dark hair drifting across her shoulder as she straightens to sit up. 

'Truly, Tissaia, no scathing retort? No _dismissal_?’ 

The woman moves up off the mattress to her feet in a smooth motion, the sheer fabric of her gold-embroidered gown shimmering around her, toes sinking into the thick rug as she stands to her full height, illuminated by the pillar of sunlight from above. 

Somewhere in the orchard a peacock makes another call - one of warning - as Yennefer closes the distance to where Tissaia is standing with slow strides.

‘We have played this game of ours for so long - might you finally have tired of chasing me _away_?' 

Her gaze is unwaveringly fixed on the smaller woman, watching the faintest changes in Tissaia's face as she circles her to the left, a warm palm slipping up to smooth down the soft blue silk of her dress. 

'I really am quite convinced a spotted pelt would suit you,’ she purrs out, her breath moving the hairs on the back of Tissaia's neck. 'Is there truly no appeal to lazing in a patch of warm sun? I could relax that too-rigid spine of yours...’ 

Long fingers brush against the line of Tissaia’s vertebrae, a gentle caress that follows the faint depression on either side of her spine, travelling downwards with pleasantly firm pressure. 

‘...I promise to pet you as much as you please.' 

'I suspect such ridiculousness would interfere with my responsibilities at Aretuza,' Tissaia retorts, quelling the tingling sensation of the skimming stroke of thumbs against her flanks, the faint sharp scent of a familiar floral perfume tickling her nostrils. 'I shall ask you only once, Yennefer; restore the Crown Prince to his rightful form and leave Ofir.'

Soft breasts brush up against Tissaia's back, an arm wrapping around her ribs to press their bodies closer together with sinuous certainty. 

' _No_ , my sweet Rectoress,' Yennefer whispers, fully caught up in the heady thrill of the chase, heedless of the subtle threads of chaos collecting in her chosen prey. 'I am quite enjoying my time here, particularly since the crowd of courtiers infesting it have been converted into baser creatures. What could you _possibly_ do to entice me away from this comfortable palace I have made my own?'

\---

A winter storm has arrived on the outer coast of the Northern Kingdoms, and the center of its fury is seemingly directed at Aretuza, as if the gods themselves were displeased with the structure’s presence. Waves the height of houses pound on the dark rocks at the base of the school’s foundations, while wind-driven snow blows in gusts, melting in the white-wash, shielding the stark spire of Tor Lara’s from view. 

The chill of midwinter hangs heavily inside - the braziers of hot coals providing preciously scant heat to those sheltering inside the walls. In the lower rooms, the students lie awake in their beds, listening to the winds raging outside, thin blankets doing little to comfort their fears.

Both the storm and the persistent chill are seemingly inconsequential to the tall woman striding through the halls. Dressed in flowing ivory robes more suited for summer, blonde hair curling beautifully over her bare shoulders, Margarita Laux-Antille is a beacon of light in the darkness. She arrives at the last door at the end of the wide corridor, the staccato tap of her heels against the stone floor announcing her arrival long before she swings the door open without pausing to knock.

‘You’ve returned _early_. To think it only took you a mere three days to set things back into order this time...’ 

Her voice trails off as she notices the shadow by the fireplace. 

‘...has your study been invaded by a particularly _large_ mouse you wish to catch, Tissaia?’ 

Margarita’s eyes are fixed on the splendid specimen of a black leopard stretched out in front of the hearth. A wide gold collar is snug around the dozing animal's neck, the cut diamonds glittering in the faint light from the fire. 

She shoots a bemused look at Tissaia, who is occupied with opening a letter with a small blade. There is a small pile of sealed papers on one side of the desk. 

‘Most would content themselves with bringing back a souvenir of wine or ripe fruit,’ Margarita observes. 

Tissaia doesn’t remark on this accusation, or elaborate on the circumstances of the leopard’s arrival to her office, instead nodding her head towards a bag near the door. Margarita’s face brightens when she sees the bottles of wine inside, the basking leopard temporarily forgotten. 

'Azir's marriage?' she asks absently, lifting up one of the glass bottles by the neck and turning it to better see in the firelight. 

'The prince wed the Duchess Tigraal this morning, and they seemed to be pleased enough with one another. The treaties will hold for the duration of their lifetimes.' 

There would be very few who know Tissaia de Vries well enough to notice the note of exhaustion that slips through these words. Margarita watches the woman for a moment before shaking her head and turning her attention back to the bottle of wine she’s pulled out of the bag. She hums in approval when she reads the paper label.

‘Delicious, even if it is a touch dry for my taste.’ There is the faint clinking of glass on glass as she investigates the other bottles, and her tone is light as she continues, ‘I trust Yennefer's seductive charms have been curtailed for the time being? No more high-borns turned into hamsters?’ Monarchs into mice? Politicians into-’

'I believe I have found a way to deter her from future mischief,’ Tissaia interrupts, the thread of impatience in her tone. ‘What is your assessment of the new students?’

Margarita’s expression tightens. She shakes her head, gold curls brushing prettily against her shoulders. 

‘We’d have better luck teaching your new pet how to control its chaos. Only two of the nine would ever pass the first term by any rights, neither of those girls will ever be particularly skilled.’ 

Tissaia’s lips thin. 

'And yet if they are to ever have a chance of making their mark on the world as sorceresses, the rest of the unfortunate cohort must remain intact, lest the others’ noble parents refuse to host court mages altogether.’

Margarita snorts as she sets the bottle back down on the table and turns fully to face Tissaia. 

‘Returning the well-bred ones to their kingdoms? Wealthy and weak, titled and entitled, and brandishing the name of Aretuza even if they never stood the trials? Tissaia, you used to be able to take an unwanted girl who came from nothing and shape her into a mage who could control a kingdom without lifting a finger, and now we’re accepting payment to mollycoddle the pampered daughters of dukes...’

'Keeping the kingdoms in balance necessitates having mages _in_ those courts,' comes the firm reply. ‘There is no other way - too much trust has been broken of late. Stregobor and Artorius murdered a princess each in their fervour over an inane prophecy. Now that news of that has spread...needless to say, Yennefer’s march through the Continent’s finest pales in comparison to the damage those two have done to the reputation of the Brotherhood.

Margarita sighs. ‘While we’re on that unpleasant subject, and before I forget - there is a missive for you. Chapter business.’ She nods towards the pile on the corner of Tissaia’s desk. 'More disappointment, I’d wager.’

Tissaia sifts through the pile, picks up the letter, and breaks the silver wax seal with her fingernail. Her eyes flicker back and forth as she reads.

‘A Chapter meeting, at a ball in Toussaint no less. Curious. I wonder how they convinced the Duke...’ her voice trails off, and she looks thoughtful. ‘No matter, I’ll be in attendance.’

A sigh greets this news. 

'Meaning I’ll have our pampered princesses for a while longer.’ Margarita’s tone is regretful. 'You wouldn’t believe the self control I have had to exert to stop myself from throwing the _delightful_ young Duchess of Tigg off the battlements. The wretched girl won’t stop complaining about the inconveniences of having to dress herself without three ladies-in-waiting in attendance.’

\-- 

Margarita leaves the study with a wine bottle in each hand, pacified.

As the door closes with a soft click of the latch, the seemingly-sleeping leopard’s eyes open at the sound, wide black pupils narrowing in the half-light. Muscles ripple under the glossy pelt, faint rosettes darker than the rest of the surrounding fur, as the leopard pushes up sinuously to stand. Leaning back on its paws, forelegs extended in a slow stretch, the beast yawns, showing off a mouthful of impressively-sharp white teeth. Satisfied, the leopard pads its way across the carpet towards the desk, narrow hips swaying with each stride on the way to Tissaia’s chair. 

When the woman does not pause in her correspondence, the creature bumps its head insistently against Tissaia’s knee, a rough sound resonating deep from within its chest. 

Tissaia’s lips twitch at the interruption, and she sits up in her chair, setting her pen neatly on the desk holder. She regards the leopard quietly for a long moment - obviously contemplating something - before her lips purse briefly and she reaches out to cup the animal’s dark chin with her hand. 

There is a shimmer of chaos, the flicker of the flames of the candlesticks on the desk, and a slender woman is suddenly seated in the leopard's place on the rug, unclothed and unadorned save for the high necklace of gold tracery and cut diamonds encircling her throat. 

Yennefer rocks her weight back on her haunches, looking up at Tissaia with a vaguely affronted air. 

‘Well. I can certainly appreciate the _irony_ of my current predicament,’ she remarks archly, lifting her chin away from Tissaia’s fingers. She glances down at her naked body, flexing her fingers and then relaxing them, seemingly unperturbed by her state of undress. ‘You could have chosen something more horrible to change me into, I suppose, had you put _thought_ into it.’

Tissaia regards her silently.

‘I shall be returning to Ofir, naturally,’ Yennefer continues with a sniff. ‘I’ve yet to finish my book.’

'You shall _not_ be returning to Ofir - not unless you plan to walk back on all fours.' 

Yennefer looks up sharply at these words, her brow furrowed, and her frown only deepens as Tissaia continues speaking. 

'The enchantment placed on you is triggered by your proximity to a particular focus; you would find your bestial change to be quite a permanent one.’

A horrible silence settles on the room. The colour has drained out of Yennefer’s face. 

'You can't _hold_ me,’ she says incredulously. She is now ever-so-still, her narrow shoulders taut as a hunting bow stretched to full draw. 

'I _can_.’ Tissaia’s grim tone communicates her absolute confidence in her ability to do so. ‘And I assure you that there is not a soul alive who has the ability to reverse the enchantment.’

Violet eyes flash. There is a prickling of pins-and-needles against Tissaia's skin that follows - the tell-tale rise of collecting chaos. 

‘Held captive by your hand once again, Rectoress,’ Yennefer spits out, full lips curled into a sneer. 

Around them the glass and metal instruments in the study have begun to shiver on their shelves, the crescendo of tinkling crystal growing in volume past that of the wind and waves crashing outside. 

‘Is Aretuza to be my _prison_ until the end of my days? Does your cruelty know no bounds?'

There is a heaviness to the air now - honey-thick with the weight of summoned energy hanging in the room. A rising wave of power pushes its way into the shallows of the surrounding space, inevitable and immense, peaking and threatening to spill over. The poised potential in Yennefer’s slight body could - if released - evaporate the ocean between here and the Tower of the Gull, crack the school’s foundations a fathom deep, and obliterate the two women into nothingness.

Tissaia does not blink. 

‘I would not inflict you upon Aretuza,' she says evenly. 'It would be safer to keep a dragon inside the walls - at least they are _predictable_ in their selfishness.’

The fire flares suddenly in the stone hearth, and Tissaia barely stops herself from physically rocking back on her seat at the sudden hammer-blow of Yennefer’s mind against her own. The furious, flailing strike ricochets off the psychic barrier she holds to ward off any such intrusion, sending sparks of chaos in every direction. 

The attack is the raw desperation of a drowning victim, scrabbling and panicked and so frighteningly _strong_ \- matched only by the winter storm raging beyond the windows - and Tissaia deflects Yennefer by the barest thread of control before being hit by a second surge, this one a pressing push, the steady force of one who expects to overpower with sheer strength.

It is a struggle between their chaos now - the opposition of each woman’s will against the other - and the energy between them builds higher and higher like a taut string set to snap at any moment. Not for the first time, Tissaia wonders if she has made a mistake allowing Yennefer this chance at redemption, if this will all have been for nothing, because her plan relies on Yennefer being able to rein in her temper enough to see reason. 

But her magic is split, hampered by the other slippery tether of chaos she is holding on to, and Tissaia strains her power to its breaking point. One word, a cinching off of the loose strand of magic she’s been holding for the last three days, and she could end it, extinguish the flaring fury that burns so brightly in the other woman.

But it is worth the risk to let it be Yennefer's _choice_.

Yennefer redoubles her onslaught, weaving through each new block thrown in her direction. Tissaia can feel her shield weaken almost to the point of rupture, and she braces herself for the inevitable explosion...

...only the following surge of manifested magic never comes. 

The pounding pressure in Tissaia’s mind recedes like the retreating sea, the trembling glassware settles into silence, and all of the candles are snuffed out at once in the sudden vacuum of energy as the gathered chaos dissipates into nothingness

Yennefer's white-knuckled fists slowly unclench at her sides. 

They are left in the darkened room - the narrow streams of smoke curling up from the tall wicks. The storm rattles the window panes with a particularly strong gust, flakes of snow swirling by.

Yennefer’s violet eyes are black in the darkness, lit only by the embers of the nearly-spent fire, and her bare chest rises and falls as if she’s just run a great distance, the shadows from the light dancing on the smooth planes of her skin.

She is eyeing Tissaia like a hare in a thicket watches a hawk circling the sky above.

‘No need to guess which focus you’ve tethered me to,’ she breathes out. ‘How very _you_ , Tissaia. So quick to martyr yourself for the Continent and clueless commoners, and naturally you’d drag me along. Is this to be a permanent arrangement, or is my captivity for some particular purpose?’ 

'I have grown tired of tracking you down every season - and your disastrous visit to Ofir cemented my decision.’ Tissaia flicks her fingers, and the candles in the room are instantly set alight again. ‘ _Containing_ you seemed an appropriate compromise.'

‘Oh? And what _is_ the length of my leash?’ 

Yennefer leans closer - her lithe form shifting on the rug - head tilting back, opening the long line of her jaw and neck, all artifice and vulnerability, like the jaws of a hidden trap under the leaves. 

‘Ten leagues? A mile? Perhaps even closer still?’ 

A feather-light caress to the underside of Tissaia’s wrist, tracing up the narrow line of tendon under soft skin as Yennefer's voice darkens into silk.

‘Must I never leave your side?'

They sit in a silence that lasts for seven ripe heartbeats, completely still, before Tissaia lifts her wrist away from Yennefer’s fingers.

'I have neither the time nor the energy to unstick you from royal courts every other year. Your actions since abandoning Aedirn have been _increasingly_ destructive and you have almost single-handedly dismantled the trust of three kingdoms towards mages and magic. The Prince of Sodden turned into a bear —‘

Yennefer scoffs and rolls her eyes, rocking back on her haunches. ' _Well-deserved_ \- he denied me lodging in the midst of a winter storm. I'd even offered him an everlasting rose in return.'

‘ — now refuses to take any mage into his court, despite my assurance that he would be secure and all the safer for it.' 

Yennefer's answering laugh is cruel.

'You then moved south and changed the sole heir to Kerack and her handmaidens into swans. The royal family have yet to forgive that slight - they ejected their court sorceress that very evening when she couldn’t restore their forms.'

'Kerack’s king invaded the boundaries of Brokolin in pursuit of timber for a hunting lodge. I owed the dryads a favour - and the girl was happier in a mountain lake than that stuffy castle.' 

But Tissaia isn't finished yet. '...the following winter in Kaer Trolde - the Jarl Laceon turned into a wolf, since killed by one of the local herders for preying on a nearby village's sheep.’

‘He cooked and ate his own son in a drunken frenzy at a banquet, Tissaia! Find me a more fitting punishment and I shall _congratulate_ you on your imagination.’ 

'And I have not even touched on your initial explosive departure from Aedirn - transforming King Virfuril into a stag and setting his own hounds on him. It was certainly the talk of the Northern Realms that winter - I doubt Demavand will ever welcome mages back to court given what happened to his father.'

Yennefer’s expression abruptly smooths at the mention of Virfuril, and there is a shift in her posture, the previous tension melting away. Turning her head slightly to the side, she hums, moving even closer into Tissaia’s space, slipping her hand against the woman’s leg, settling on the faint roughness of the velvet.

'Do you want to know what I think, Tissaia?' 

Her fingertips trail a slow path up from Tissaia's knee, brushing against the grain of the blue brocade. 

'I think that you don't want to _share_ me with anyone else.'

But Tissaia dips her pen in the glass inkwell and returns to the parchment, seemingly unfazed by the hand that has come to pause at the juncture of her hip. 

After a long moment of being ignored, the itch of irritation curling through the space between her shoulder blades, Yennefer’s chin drops to rest heavily on the top of the woman's thigh. She gazes up at Tissaia through dark lashes.

'Where _were_ you planning to have me sleep, given this delightful puzzle of proximity you’ve devised?'

Tissaia does not look up from her writing. 'Since you turned down my hearth rug so readily, would you prefer a bed of straw in the stables instead?’

Yennefer's eyes narrow, nostrils flaring. 

'I'll _bite_ you, Tissaia. Just see if I don't.'

Tissaia’s hand stills. She sits up to her full height, turning again to look down with frank appraisal at the woman who has settled in her lap. 

'I have no compunctions about muzzling you, _girl_ ,’ she warns. ‘And I shall caution you that attempting to break the binding carries the same consequence as straying too far away.'

Yennefer slowly lifts her chin off of Tissaia’s thigh, her smooth hair spilling across her back. Her jaw is tensed anew. 

'And what must I do to convince you to _remove_ the enchantment?' she bites out.

Tissaia’s clear eyes reflect the light from the nearby candlesticks. 

'Assurance that you are capable of putting the needs of others before your own.’ 

A peal of bright laugh bounces against the wood-panelled walls. 

'Clearly you feel responsible for my selfish ways,’ Yennefer says mockingly. Tossing her dark mane over one shoulder with a flick of her head, she draws closer, pushing her bare chest, warm and soft, against the woman’s thigh. ‘Must I also call you _Mistress_?' 

Tissaia regards her silently.

'I cannot have you traipsing around the land, upsetting the order I have worked centuries to instill. If what it takes to maintain that balance is leashing you to me...‘

She lifts her right hand, running the nail of her index finger lightly along the cold line of the collar fitted snug against Yennefer’s throat. 

‘...then so be it.’ 

Yennefer sits perfectly still save for the slight rise and fall of her chest, the small diamonds scattered across her neck catching the firelight with every breath. The surprise in her face is clear, and it is only when Tissaia’s hand falls from her neck that Yennefer finally blinks, as if to shake herself out of a stupor.

‘There is a room prepared for you across the hall, and a shift on the dresser there.’ Tissaia nods in the direction of the bookshelves at the corner of the room, before dipping her pen in the inkwell again and returning to her letter. ‘I trust you can find your way.’

Despite the clear dismissal, Yennefer looks up at her for a very long time, as if trying to parse out something or other, eyes tracing over the stiff posture, the rigid set of her jawline, the raised pointed chin.

'Oh Tissaia,' she finally sighs, clicking her tongue against her teeth, ‘the most desirable woman in the Continent _naked_ at your feet, and you seek only to send her off to bed without her supper. Such _enviable_ self control.’

Full lips curve into a smirk as Yennefer stands in a single fluid motion, the joints in her legs cracking after so long in one position. She gazes down at Tissaia with what might be an expression of _pity_ shadowing her face. 

'Very well then - I shall eagerly await my first task to prove myself capable of being loosed back into the world.’

And then Yennefer turns, strides past the carefully-folded shift on the bench without even a glance in its direction, and leaves through the door, the fire gleaming against her bare backside.

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve been referring to this story as ‘The Circe Fic’ for obvious reasons. There are a planned four chapters, all roughly of this length. Ofir is referred to approximately once in the books, so some fleshing out was necessary. 
> 
> As always, toss questions at me - I reply to everything.


End file.
